


How to Release Time

by Elliott_Fletcher



Series: And Then He'd Go Back to Sleep [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Comfort, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9159517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: He wraps his arms around his chest, and he is in his own cage but it's a nice one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There's this one person who thinks I can write stories, thinks I can write them well, tells me I can very quietly, in very little words in a very little voice. It is my quiet little heart, making quiet little miracles, and making me happy when my sisters are raiding a fridge in another province.
> 
> I wanted to gift this fic to a person who left a really inspiring comment on one of my other wolfstar pieces.
> 
> You'll notice no one is the recipient of this fic. That's because the comment was posted anonymously. 
> 
> This is for you.

He tells himself it is not a diary: they shout obscenities, teasing, down the halls, around the walls, sound bouncing around, in and out of Remus's ears. It is not a diary, he tells himself. He is not a petty girl; he is an Author, not himself, still him, not his self. His knees quake beneath him so he moves them forward, and they feel broken but he runs anyway. The shouts follow him. Grotesque on-the-wall-shadows follow him, lipping with the corridor candle light, and he runs from the sights and the sounds, runs, runs, slams his back against the door like it's a triumph when he knows he's just admitted defeat in his retreat. (Breathe).

The slam woke him up; it pinched in his nerves, jolting like the blood flows, flowing, around and round like his head spins, and he knocks it back against the carved wood. The slam wakes him up.

"Remus? Were you chased?" - James's voice.

"Remus? You look dreadful!" - That one is Peter's, but Remus has shut his eyes to the noise.

"Remus!" Sirius yelps, and Remus drops his journal - vintage, handcrafted in Italy - clamoring with the force of ever-present gravity, frighteningly sharp.

Remus is abducted from the doorway by strong arms, thin arms, holding him in a cage that feels too warm, smothering him in leather, and he feels kidnapped but pleasant, and in Sirius's arms you can only be comfortable. Two, two, hands pulling his own away from his chest, replacing them like fluttering machines, moving and warming, and Remus exhales yet pulls away. He slumps to his lumpy mattress, lumps from blankets, too many, and pillows, too little, too spread out. He sinks in the middle and is surrounded by the lumps and then by his friends. (Breathe).

"Calm down, everyone," James instructs, uneasy. "Space for the man, give him some." Sirius throws himself against Remus's side, flush, leather and wool-fleece-sweater-warmth. James glares fleetingly, but settles beside him, Peter on Remus's other side. Suffocating warmth, Remus thinks. Too many bodies, not enough brain cells.

A pulse, a pulse in his temple and below his ears says it's not a diary in every vibration. (Breathe).

They lay their collective gazes on his, pressure flooding from their eyes, flowing from the weight of Sirius's hand on his thigh, constant, there.

"Just a bout of teasing, is all." Remus admits, his neck bending, stooping, tucking under his chin to hide. He burrows his nose in the neck of his sweater and breathes in the smell of cigarettes, the small tears and threads running down, down his sleeves. He wraps his arms around his chest, and he is in his own cage but it's a nice one. (It's not a diary). (How to release time: breathe). 'I'm,' he blinks - he's not - 'fine.'


End file.
